


Heart of Gold

by TetrodotoxinB



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: AND I HAD FUN, Magic, Magic AU, Magical Realism, Medical care in hospital, Ventilator use, but it happened, idk what this is, kind restraints, medical complications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28124709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB
Summary: Mac's no stranger to the way people look at him when they find out he's a magic user, but some things not even Mac is prepared for.
Comments: 22
Kudos: 43





	Heart of Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Burn Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527320) by [Nativestar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nativestar/pseuds/Nativestar). 



> I bummed the idea of Magic!Mac (no this doesn't involve Mac being a male stripper) from [Nativestar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nativestar).
> 
> Also I bummed the title from the Neil Young song of the same name. Idk that the song is particularly apropos but I like it and the title worked if nothing else. Deep thought was not involved on my part wrt the title.

When their cover is blown, Mac and Jack find themselves cornered. Mac could easily extract them — a little fire, maybe some electricity, a nice shock wave to turn the concrete wall behind them to rubble — he wouldn’t even have to break a sweat. 

But these cops somehow know that Mac and Jack are US government. If Mac presses the matter, they’ll be disavowed. Magic use is strictly against US domestic and foreign policy, though Mac knows dozens of clandestine magic users employed by the United States. Their best hope is to play dumb, let themselves be taken in, and deal whatever they’re dealt. 

Still, it sucks letting someone knock him around when he could easily overpower them and slip away into the night. Instead, he — and probably somewhere in another cell Jack — is taking one helluva beating. Mac closes his eyes and wills the magic down, locking it away to keep from accidentally defending himself against the abuse. It’s not a skill he’s always had but in this line of work it’s vital.

Mac eventually plays it up, begging for them to stop, pleading that they’ve got the wrong man, that he’s just a tourist, hardly anyone magical at all. And eventually, they stop. Not a flicker of gold, not a single spark. Just bruises and blood and tears.

“We’ll see,” the interrogator spits.

Mac sags against his bonds and rests. His skin itches with the need to heal his wounds and the magic stirs, embers flickering out through him trying to knit the damage back together. It takes everything Mac has, but he wills it away and lets the pain deepen. It has to look real. And it is.

*****

Exhaustion must at some point overwhelm Mac because he wakes, his head jerking up painfully, as the door to the holding cell opens. 

“We’ll see about that magic of yours,” the man growls, smug sneer turning up the corner of his lips.

Mac blinks to clear his eyes, or rather to clear his one eye, the one that isn’t swollen shut. That’s when he realizes what the man has in his hands. To anyone else it would just be a small carved wooden box. There are no arcane designs or special sigils. But Mac can _feel_ the contents: imperial gold.

Just the aura of imperial gold is enough to dampen, and in enough quantity temporarily extinguish, magical ability altogether. 

The man opens the box and the force of the imperial gold hits him like a train. His lungs feel compressed, like he’s got the weight of the building bearing down on him. His bones thrum with a dull ache that throbs with his heartbeat. But what’s in the box isn’t exactly what Mac expected.

The man laughs. “You expected a nugget? Perhaps an enchanted amulet? Something pathetic and weak. You thought I would dampen your magic, but why would I do that when I could extinguish it all together? Permanently.”

Mac’s face must betray his fear because the man’s sneer morphs into a malicious grin as he pulls the syringe and needle from the wooden box and admires it. “Colloidal imperial gold is hard to make, and even harder to come by, but they say the effect is immediate. Creatures like you are hard to kill, so if I can’t kill you, ridding you of your magic is the next best thing.”

He sets the syringe and box aside and cuts Mac’s shirt away with a boot knife, leaving little bloody lines in his wake in his carelessness. Mac releases his hold on his magic, letting it flow free. But it’s sluggish, like a mud pot by a geyser. Hot, dangerous, but too dense to flow like water. Too thick to flow as fast as he needs it to. 

Mac struggles against his bonds relying on his mundane skills. But there are no lockpicks, no paper clips, no gum wrappers, or borrowed cell phones. 

He watches in fear as the man uncaps the syringe, a long, large-bore needle coming right at him. Mac tugs at the magic, slowly churning under the weight of the imperial gold’s aura, it’s climbing his bones up, up, up like it’s trying to make its escape. He thrashes, but he’s pinned to the wall behind him with the man’s wide palm.

“Just a pinch, witch,” the man sneers.

It’s more than a pinch. Mac’s eyes bunch closed as the needle penetrates his chest wall, sliding in, in, in until he swears he can feel it puncture his heart. The second the man begins injecting the solution, Mac’s eyes fly open. He can feel the heat from the magic, yellow and hot and suddenly free-flowing. It permeates every cell of his body, exploding out like he’s a dying star. 

It burns — the magic, the gold. It all just burns. Mac can feel the man’s hand on his chest and he knows more and more of the solution is being injected and with every panicked heart beat it circulates through his body, infecting his cells, contaminating his tissues. The magic clings to his bones like molasses as the gold rips it free bit by bit. 

Dimly, Mac is aware of his own screaming, the sound is less human and more animal. Like a wolf caught in a bear trap or a fox burning up in a forest fire. Howling, raging, snarling, shrieking. Mac rails against his own destruction as the solution and the magic wage war in his body.

Mac forgets the needle, his captor, and his bonds as the world beyond his own skin fades to nothingness. All he knows is pain, fear, and the blinding yellow glow of magic.

*****

There are a lot of stories about magic and what it feels like. They’re pretty much all bullshit — heat, cold, fear, foreboding, seeing auras. It’s more like the static before lightning strikes nearby or like that time Mac built a Van der Graaf generator in his garage. Jack’s skin tingles and maybe, if it’s close enough or strong enough, the hair on his arms might stand up. It’s nothing fantastical, but the world has always liked to pretend magic is something it’s not. 

So when Jack feels his skin tingle and then prickle, the hairs on his arms not only standing up but beginning to singe, Jack knows something serious is happening. He wriggles his arms, twisting the cuffs and rattling the chains, hoping that some of the growing magic in the air might aid in his escape.

The magic builds and builds, like a blast front in slow motion. Jack feels like he’s being pushed through jello at two Gs, but all he’s doing is sitting at an interrogation table. The lights in the room blow out first, and Jack can hear the ballasts blow one by one down the hall. The air crackles and little sparks of static _pop_ as Jack moves, his body providing a path to ground for the ambient electricity.

Jack’s seen a lot in the Army, the CIA, DXS. Magic users, despite all the lip service, are heavily employed across the board. But despite a career like his, Jack’s never seen anything close to this. It’s like a magical bomb went off. The acrid tang of ozone permeates the room, the explosion splitting oxygen molecules like a million lightning strikes at once. 

Jack jerks at the cuffs again, terrified that Mac is the source of this slow-motion explosion, and they fall away like cut ribbons. They clatter to the table, the components all disengaging from one another on impact, and Jack runs to the door. The knob falls apart in Jack’s hand and it’s hardly any effort at all to push the lock right out of the door. 

The hall is dark, smoke and ozone filling the air. A flashlight beam flickers down the hall as someone runs across the corridor a few doors down, but no one sees Jack. He tentatively steps out of the room and holds his hands out to his sides. The jello is thicker to his left, which means the source of the magic must be that way. 

One right turn and three doors down on the left is Mac. Jack can see him glowing in a heap on the floor. The bastard that interrogated Jack with his smug, know-it-all smirk and world-cleansed-of-magical-impurity bullshit, lies not far from Mac, his eyes lifeless and dull.

Mac is anything but. 

He screams, the sound a strange and horrifying thing. It’s fractured, like he’s screaming but through various panes of glass, like _he’s_ fractured. The sound is fear and pain and raw magic, if magic had a sound. 

Jack wants to cover his ears but instead he carefully approaches and then touches Mac. When the sheer volume of magic emanating from him doesn’t kill Jack altogether, he carefully slides his arms under Mac’s limp body and carries him out. 

It’s a surprisingly easy escape. No one tries to stop them, or if they do, they don’t succeed. All Jack knows is that they walk right down to the garage, steal the first easily hotwired car they encounter, and then speed off into the night. 

One pickpocketed cell phone later and exfil gathers them up on a medevac flight. The whole way home, Jack just watches Mac. He writhes on the stretcher, his back arching high, twisting his entire body this way and that. The screaming comes and goes, sometimes more human than others, but the bright, almost blinding glow, never stops. Jack stares at him, trying to see through the light, but it’s like trying to see into the sun, and eventually he has to look away.

*****

Jack sits in the fold out bed-chair next to Mac’s bed and flips through channel after channel. There’s nothing to watch on TV. Nothing that matters, anyway. Jack only turns it on to drown out the dull whir of the IV pump, the hum of the dialysis machine, the hiss and click of the ventilator. It’s a quiet cacophony of desperation and waning hope. 

Every intervention seems to come with two more. Chelation to remove the metals comes with kidney failure so Mac gets a port in his neck and dialysis. Seizures from the metals in his blood means he gets a medically induced coma and a ventilator. The coma and the ventilator mean he gets an NG tube and restraints. And of course each of these carries with it a myriad of possible complications, so many that Jack’s head spins just trying to keep up with it all. 

Watching from the outside, not knowing what any of it means, everything feels like it’s going downhill. It’s all spinning out of control like a car down an icy mountain road. Worse yet, Jack knows that the doctors have no idea if any of this will work, since this isn’t exactly a common condition. And if the doctors can’t do anything, Jack’s worse than worthless. He’s just sitting in this chair beside Mac’s bed, pretending that he’s doing something other than just watching his best friend die.

And to top it all off it’s been nearly a week. Mac’s body still emits golden light from under his hospital gown and blankets, but it’s decreasing. No one knows if that means he’s winning against the imperial gold or losing. Even if he doesn’t die, there’s probably organ damage and brain damage and who the hell knows what else just waiting in the wings. And there’s no way to tell because they still can’t do any imaging and there’s no way to gauge his neurological function until they bring him up from the coma. It’s a waiting game and Jack hates waiting.

Tentatively, Jack reaches out to lay a hand on Mac’s arm. The magic still coming off of him makes the hairs on Jack’s arm stand up and his hand tingle, but the jello feeling only lingers a few millimeters from his skin instead of encompassing the whole building. 

Either way, the fever from several days ago seems to be gone. The nurses check him every few hours, but Jack likes to verify it himself the old fashioned way — some things have been felt to be trusted. A fever of 107F (41.6C) isn’t something he’s going to forget soon, and he understands his mother’s worried hovering now that he has someone of his own to worry over. 

Satisfied with Mac’s temperature, Jack slips his hand into Mac’s. Instantly the hand closes around Jack’s, a sign that Mac is still alive, still in there, despite the nurses saying it’s only a reflex.

Jack may be losing hope day by day, but it’s not gone yet. Not while Mac can still prove he’s there, not while he’s holding on too.

*****

Jack watches every monitor like a hawk. They said it’ll take a few hours to see a difference, but Jack doesn’t care. He’s been watching paint age for the last ten days and damned if he’s gonna do anything that doesn’t involve eyes on Mac. 

He wonders what the first sign will be that Mac’s waking up. The nurses said the decrease in meds wouldn’t be enough for Jack to see anything but that the monitors should start to pick it up. Jack’s not entirely sure what they’re wanting the monitors to pick up but a change in vitals sounds good to Jack. Basically, anything that shows Mac is still somewhat functional sounds like a great start to not being a vegetable after two days of massive seizures. 

But despite the tentative hope, Jack is worried. He doesn’t want just basal functions — he wants _Mac._ Jack’s anxiety grows by the hour, and nurses and doctors come and go, checking on Mac’s... everything; Jack isn’t really sure what. He begins to wonder if he should start preparing for a less than perfect outcome. Where would Mac live? Certainly not in a care facility. Could Jack care for Mac if he needed long term attention? Could Jack go back to work without Mac?

Jack spirals down the emotional vortex of despair for while he waits and watches the clock. After five hours, the ventilator alarms and a nurse hurries into the room. Alarms thus far have not boded well for Mac, and Jack can barely contain his panic.

“What's going on? Is this bad?” Jack asks. 

She smiles and shakes her head. “Nope. I think it might even be good. Looks like he’s taking some of the work from the ventilator. It’s a great start.”

Jack nods and the nurse pretends she can’t see the wetness in his eyes. Finally, Jack feels something like hope.

*****

But whatever dramatic coma recovery Jack had expected or wanted, it’s nothing like TV. It takes a couple of days to wean Mac off the vent altogether, and even then he’s still sort of sedated from all the antiseizure meds they’re pumping into him. And although he’s not able to carry a conversation or remember where he is, he seems to be passing all of the neurological tests they throw at him. 

Jack tries to be positive, pep talking Mac like he does in the field and happily relaying the good news to any and all who visit or call, but inside Jack struggles to buy the line he’s selling. “A long road to recovery” is what the doctors said, and given that Mac basically easy-baked his brain with that fever — nevermind that his kidneys are still on the fritz from the poison and the meds — Jack knows he should be more patient and more grateful for the ground they’ve gained. But it feels empty because there’s still so much room for things to be wrong. Permanently wrong. Jack doesn’t know how to handle that possibility and he doesn’t know how to talk about it when everyone around him seems so positive.

But the facade crumbles in the time when they’re alone. Mac’s still on dialysis, the terrifying tubes coming from the side of Mac’s neck, and the tube that goes down Mac’s nose, supplying him with food, is still taped to his face. The worst are the wrist restraints keeping him from pulling at tubes and monitors in his confusion because sometimes Mac can’t remember why he’s restrained and he fights, desperate to escape and begging for someone to save him. It’s honestly a terrifying scene and it’s obvious to Jack that Mac’s hurting. Jack feels like he’s just there to watch and somehow that’s worse than the helplessness. 

In the face of what it’s become, their fears about disavowal when they were first apprehended now seem pointless and miniscule. Mac should have blasted his way out of there the moment they had the chance. But and bias and years of living under the radar mean that everything in life that Mac’s built for himself lie in rubble in that stupid cinderblock interrogation room.

Jack leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and scrubs his palms over his face. _You go kaboom, I go kaboom._ Except he didn’t. Mac did. Alone. And now Jack’s standing there, looking around the blast site like he has some idea how to put it all back together. But he doesn’t. No one does. 

He wonders what’s the point of an overwatch when he can’t even keep a magic-using bomb nerd in one piece. Some operative he is.

*****

The amber glow has faded to a dim haze that is barely discernible haze that’s only truly visible when the lights are low. Jack tries to be casual about it, about how his retinas are probably damaged, but Mac can see through the bluster and into the fear. Jack’s scared. Hell, Mac’s scared too. 

Waking up with tubes in his nose and mouth, a central line in his neck, and catheters in some profoundly uncomfortable places had been traumatizing enough. Being restrained, though, was its own unique sort of hell. At first, all Mac knew was that everything hurt and he felt sick and that people could see his magic. It was terrifying. Mac thought, maybe, that he was being drugged and kept prisoner as he could clearly remember only one thing — the giant needle and syringe full of colloidal imperial gold. 

Now that the haze of the benzos has decreased, Mac’s fears are different. Is he going to be on dialysis for the rest of his life? Can a magic user even get on the transplant list? Does he have brain damage? He’s not sure because he’s not been allowed to look at a screen or read so far, just to give him a chance to heal up. Maybe he can read but the higher functions, like say differential calculus on the fly, aren’t still the same. 

Worst of all, Mac’s not sure he even is a magic user anymore. Though the glow somewhat allays his fears — after all it’s clearly not entirely gone — Mac can’t _feel_ the magic anymore. Before, magic came to Mac’s fingertips the way words roll off his tongue. It’s effortless, natural, almost unconscious. Now Mac gropes blindly in the dark, little embers of magic scattered here and there, wisps of what used to be that slip frustratingly through his fingers.

“It’s probably all that kept you alive,” the doctors warn. “Try not to disturb it until you’re fully recovered.”

Mac tries to be patient, but in the long hours in the ICU with nothing to do Mac spins horrible possibilities of a magic-less future, of early retirement, of obsolescence. He’s only ever been wanted for what he can do. Knowing that he may no longer fit that bill is terrifying. He started his career alone and on some level that’s always how Mac expected to finish it. Just not at twenty-nine. 

Unable to voice his fears, Mac finds himself alone in his hospital room, despite Jack’s presence. He exists in an emptiness of his own making, and he accepts his fate of loneliness and exile long before the sentence is handed down. He knows it’s premature, but he lacks the energy for hope.

*****

Six months. Six long months, and Mac can’t so much as touch his magic. Even if he could, he’s still benched for another six months at least. A job as physically demanding as his is still too much for his healing kidneys and brain.

Thankfully though, his kidneys are well enough he no longer has to go for dialysis and the seizures never came back once he weaned off the meds. Out of sheer luck, Mac seems to have retained all his memories and his genius level intellect. It’s a huge relief, and one that Mac is none too grateful for, but he still worries that his inability to use magic may cost him his career. Of course with Mac’s intellect it’s not so much the job itself that he’s worried about as much as losing his coworkers, especially Jack.

Mac rustles around in the kitchen, pulling out leftovers and heating them up in the microwave. There’s some cold coffee from this morning and he pours himself a cup, setting it on the bar to heat up in a minute. 

While the microwave runs and he loads the dishwasher, he contemplates meditating after he eats, a technique a magic-using doctor advised him to do in an attempt to reconnect with his gift. He’s been trying now for three weeks, but Mac honestly can’t tell if it’s helping or not. Part of him thinks the doctor just wants him to work on his depression, maybe find some acceptance with the loss. Mac knows that it’s probably not bad advice, but he’s still not yet ready to hear it. 

The microwave dings and Mac carefully takes his lunch out, setting it on the bar by his water bottle and coffee. Jack will be there any moment. Mac missed work due to physical therapy — just like every Monday and Thursday morning — and Jack is gonna come drag him to some special get-together with some of their coworkers. It’s not the most appealing event and Mac still needs to shower and change after PT, but saying “no” to Jack earns Mac a series of worried looks, followed by Jack staying the weekend, and it all wraps up with Mac press-ganged into a movie marathon of Westerns or Die Hard or day-long repeats of The Goonies. It’s not that Mac doesn’t enjoy those things, but he also wishes he could maybe just get some time to himself. Maybe a chance to be sad or disappointed without it being deemed pathological. Mac knows it’s probably too much to ask.

Mac sighs and takes a bite of leftover spaghetti and meatballs. He can’t wait until the weekend when he can get at least a day away from people to recharge. He’s contemplating which project he wants to work on — the laser harp for Riley’s birthday or the improved capacitor bank for his railgun project — when the door opens.

“Hey, hey, Mac. How’s it kicking? They try to kill you at PT this morning?” Jack asks.

Mac chuckles and twirls some spaghetti on his fork. His frustration at being dragged to a work-social event is nearly gone now that Jack is actually here. “Nah, it’s not so bad anymore. I don’t think it’ll be too long before they drop me down to once a week or just call it entirely.”

Jack nods solemnly. “That’s good, Mac. I know you’ve been working really hard. I’m proud of you.”

Mac shoves the entire forkful of pasta into his mouth at once to avoid addressing just how much those words affect him. _Jack is proud._ Not disappointed, not simply “glad to hear it,” not “it’s about time.” Mac isn’t used to praise in this form, no matter how often Jack gives it to him.

He swallows and makes himself look up. “Thanks, Jack.”

Jack nods and pulls out another bar stool to sit down at. “So you got any more of that coffee?”

Mac nods and gets up to get Jack a cup. “It’s cold. You want me to microwave it?”

Jack grimaces. “Nah, it’s gonna be bitter and gross either way.”

He’s not wrong and Mac gets up to pour a mug of stale, black coffee, and hands it over, embarrassed at the state of the coffee that he has on hand. 

“Woah, shit!” Jack yelps, hurriedly setting the mug down. “I thought you said ‘cold,’ not ‘remove your fingerprints’ hot.”

Mac scowls because sure enough the mug that sits on the bartop is steaming hot. That doesn’t make sense though because the coffee pot has been off for hours. His own cup of coffee is cold since he never got around to putting it in the microwave. 

“Mac, buddy? What’s going on? You got that ‘oh shit’ face. I don’t like it,” Jack says carefully, still cradling his burnt palm.

Mac shakes his head. “I don’t know. The coffee pot is cold. My own coffee is cold. There’s no reason…”

Jack grins, sudden and bright. “You think? I know you said nothing’s been happening but unless you’ve got a good explanation for this, I think we both know what happened.”

Mac closes his eyes and reaches deep for the magic. The vast, seemingly bottomless reserve of arcane power is gone, but at the bottom where Mac can feel the cold of the emptiness, there’s a small ember, barely more than a spark. Hesitantly, Mac reaches out and the flame flickers and gutters but doesn’t go out. 

It’s there, the magic is there. Mac doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry or take a nap before trying to process this.

Carefully, he lets go of the tiny glowing coal and opens his eyes. “It’s magic. I don’t know how, or why now, or where it’s come from. But there’s magic there.”

Jack grins from ear to ear and gets up to wrap Mac in a strong hug. “I’m glad, bud. So glad.”

Mac laughs and nods, “Me too, Jack.”

They break apart but Jack grabs Mac’s shoulders in his hands. “I need you to listen to me on this, though. I’m not glad because you got your magic back and it’s handy. I’m glad because you wanted your magic back and you got it. I’m here. No matter what. Even if all you ever do again with it is heat coffee, okay?”

Mac nods. “Thanks, Jack. I appreciate it.” And he really does. 

Jack nods. “Alright, finish up and go get ready. We’ve got toasts to make at lunch. Very important things are happening today!”

It’s a lot to deal with all at once, and Mac’s not sure how to feel about it. On one hand, Mac wants to hope. He wants this to be the beginning of his magic building itself back up, like maybe he used all of his reserves just staying alive. He wants to believe that one day, not too far off, he’ll be as powerful as he once was. But those hopes seem so big and far away compared to everything he’s dealt with lately. It feels like another mountain to climb and Mac’s honestly really damn tired of climbing right now.

But rather than dwell, Mac takes a breath and reminds himself that he only has to take life one day at a time. Relieved that he can safely put off the implications of this discovery for another day, Mac bathes, dresses, and then hustles out the door with Jack. He’ll make plenty of time tonight to work on his meditation. It doesn’t seem like such a waste of time after all.


End file.
